


Hindsight

by kisahawklin



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Kiss, Glasses, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-10
Updated: 2010-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney needs glasses, he knows it, but the thought of having glasses makes him feel <i>old</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hindsight

Rodney rubs his eyes. He needs glasses, he knows it. Just readers, probably, but the thought of having glasses makes him feel _old_. Not as old as the way his body protests doing things these days, things like sitting too long, or getting out of a too-low bed, or sleeping on his side, but still, old. Glasses are for old people.

Sheppard is the one that ends up getting him to take an eye exam, after a misread of something on the computer locked them into a lab together for eighteen hours while Radek and a team of structural engineers worked on getting them out. He gets his readers in the next shipment from Earth, a strange grey-blue squarish pair that look entirely too cool for the likes of him. Sheppard delivers them personally and sucks in a breath when Rodney puts them on.

"What?" Rodney says, panicking, and running to the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror for a minute, looking at the surprising way the glasses make his eyes look even bluer. "Hey, that's..."

Sheppard's smirking behind him now, his stupid face in the mirror above Rodney's shoulder.

"Whatever, mister perfect pilot eyes," Rodney says. "You're going to need them soon too – everyone's eyes change as they age and you're no teenager anymore."

Sheppard shakes his head, the smirk firmly in place. "I've had glasses for years," he says, pulling a pair out of his pocket and putting them on. They're the thick, dark, old-fashioned glasses that are back in style, and they stand out on his face like they're a piece of modern art. Weirdly, they seem to complement his hair. Rodney wonders if there's anything that doesn't look good on Sheppard.

He glances back to the mirror and grins. He looks good in glasses. Also he can see the details of his face a lot better - and when did he get those lines around his mouth and eyes? His five o'clock shadow looks as bad as it feels, too, so it's not as unnoticeable as he thought. Damn, he needs these worse than he thought.

"I like them," Sheppard says. "I always thought scientists were required to wear glasses."

"Right, because reading properly isn't necessary when you're a genius," Rodney says. "I should've worn glasses to make sure your stereotype was intact."

Sheppard shrugs. "I figured you were just vain and wore contacts."

That's rich, coming from the guy that owns at least five different hair products that Rodney can differentiate by smell.

"They make your eyes look really blue," Sheppard says, stepping into the bathroom. Rodney turns around and backs up, the backs of his thighs hitting the sink.

"I, uh," Rodney says. Sheppard crowds right into his bathroom, and there's nowhere for Rodney to go. He stands up straighter, trying to give Sheppard some room in the tiny space and not look like he's confused by Sheppard's weird personal space boundaries. "My eyes are always blue," he says a little nonsensically, pressing back against the sink hard enough that he's going to have to check for bruises later.

"I know," Sheppard says, low and soft, and Rodney can feel understanding dawn as Sheppard's now too close for anything but fighting or kissing, and if there's one thing he knows about Sheppard, it's the way he looks before he's going to fight, and it's not like this, not with his eyes intense and wide, his mouth slightly open, and not leaning in like he wants to tell Rodney a secret.

Rodney processes his relationship with Sheppard in reverse as Sheppard takes forever to finish leaning in, the nooks and crannies of time spent with Sheppard filling in with a different sort of meaning, an understanding of Sheppard's strange body language, awkward pauses, inability to talk about anything more personal than a puddlejumper. When Sheppard finally gets right into Rodney's face, he hesitates and Rodney can read the apprehension as clear as day, the question of whether or not Rodney's going to misinterpret or ask what he's doing or just ignore it and start talking about himself.

Rodney wants to kick himself for missing out on this opportunity for years, for being so blinded by the effect of Sheppard's charms on others that he missed the application of them to himself. He puts his hands on Sheppard's hips and pulls him in the last few inches to press the length of their bodies together before getting to their mouths, all of which settle in like the tumblers of a lock with a nearly audible click as Rodney finally puts his lips on Sheppard's.

Sheppard grabs his shoulders like he's some fainting virgin and kisses eagerly, if a little earnestly. Rodney starts to wonder about the women, Chaya and Teer and Larrin, and if they knew, when he kissed them, if they knew he'd obviously been pretending to know what he was doing, a kiss orchestrated to feel passionate, but lacking any actual feeling.

Sheppard – _John_ , Rodney's brain insists, _he must be_ John _now_ – pulls back and opens his eyes, and they immediately go guarded, like he knows Rodney's read his bluff.

Rodney doesn't bother to say anything; words don't mean much to John anyway – the best part of their friendship is the part where Rodney doesn't actually have to say what he means and John doesn't have to say anything at all and they both totally get it.

He pulls John in instead, and just the feel of John's name in his head is pretty cool, a name as laconic is he is, a single syllable of almost-anonymity. "John," Rodney says, trying it out, letting it roll over his tongue. John's face loosens up, surprise making him even more readable than usual, and John Sheppard, for all his hardass Air Force colonel ways, is as readable as a two-year old about to have a tantrum.

"John," Rodney says again, and John's eyelids droop and he sways in, his weight pushing Rodney even harder into the sink, forcing him to half-sit on it to avoid the sting already settling in on the backs of his thighs.

John puts a thumb in the middle of Rodney's lower lip and Rodney flicks his tongue out to greet it. John's tongue slips out and wets his lips, and Rodney's never realized just how familiar that is, and how it's always going to make him want to kiss John from now on. He's going to have to stop watching John in meetings, or negotiations, or anything that takes any concentration at all.

John puts the pad of his thumb on Rodney's jugular right where it meets his collarbone. Rodney can feel the pressure and little bit of slick, and see John's eyes gloss over even more before John leans in and dips his head until their foreheads meet and their glasses clink.


End file.
